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My Story

Love and Marriage

I met my husband when I was in college. At first, I was honestly just glad that anyone was interested in me and I wasn’t necessarily going to die alone. I am painfully aware from the experiences of others in my close family that this method of choosing men is fraught with peril. But I struck gold.

In the beginning, I encouraged the relationship more than I really wanted to out of fear and self-loathing. Both of us have suffered from chronic depression for as long as we have known each other, and our relationship hasn’t always gone smoothly. Due to school and job stuff, we spent several years apart, and those years were rough, as were the years afterwards when we were learning to be together again. He was good to me from the beginning, but these and other events were rough patches nonetheless, and I stuck them out, at least at first, mostly out of the same self-hatred.

Over time, though, the strangest thing happened. I fell truly, deeply, madly in love with the man. Recently we celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary. It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve spent well over half my life with him. It is not hard for me to believe that I will do the same for the rest of it.

When I was a kid I sort of had this idea that the way love went was that you fell in love, had a few wonderful years, got married, got bored, and just kind of drifted after that. That has not been my experience at all. Each passing year is better than the year before. As I’ve grown up, grown into myself, grown into more and more self-acceptance and confidence, our relationship has only gotten better.

As we have known each other more, our conversations have become complex, subtle, and wide-ranging. I don’t know what it means to “run out of things to talk about.” Our many shared experiences and past conversations have only led to a joint language and perspective. We have arguments about Soviet space missions, the proper usage of common household items, and what our 14-year-old dog’s name actually is. (And no, she isn’t recently adopted.)

What, you may ask, does this have to do with body liberation? This: In the six months or so since I woke up to the crappiness of diet culture and decided to actually care for my body, our relationship has bloomed. Apparently, it is actually true that if you love yourself, it is easier to be loved by others.

It turns out that my husband has been holding back in his appreciation of me, body and soul, for years–because I was so negative and dismissive.

Why was I dismissive? Somehow I imagined that if I didn’t draw his attention to my hugeness, he might not notice it as much. Somehow I imagined that he had been with me for 23 years in spite of my body, not because of, or at least in happiness with it. Somehow I imagined that if I let my only intimate partner actually interact openly with me about my body, that would make things worse.

Now that I wear clothes with pleasure and gladly show them off, enjoy his touch fully without demure, and let him say what he will without rejection, everything has changed. We are basking in the glow of love like newlyweds. People tell us we’re adorable on the street. We are both noticeably happier in all we do. It’s disgusting. It’s wonderful.

Also, the sex is stunning and about triple in frequency. So, yeah, there’s that.

Categories
Eating Disorders My Story

Food Sharing in Binge Eating Disorder Recovery

Do y’all live alone? If not, do you have your own separate food or do you share? I live with my husband and no other humans. (We do not have children.) We mostly have very distinct eating habits so we rarely share food, but sometimes we do. More often, we think we’re not sharing until one of us discovers that the other has finished something they were counting on eating soon.

I’m very bad about food ownership. I really don’t like people to touch my food. I really like to know that there will be exactly as much of whatever tomorrow as I left today.

Yesterday, as we were driving home, I was eating a bag of Doritos. I was eating them quite slowly and it was quite a large bag. Cool as you please, without warning or query, my husband leaned over and took one and ate it.

Instantly I suffered a massive surge of rage and anxiety. Mine! How dare you!?

Almost as quickly, I realized that this possessiveness was a food anxiety/scarcity response. I needed to know that those Doritos were there for me. I was working hard not to chug the whole bag down in a rush, but I needed to know that that wouldn’t lead to them going away.

I also realized that I could pull over and buy more Doritos anytime I liked and then eat them. This calmed me down a lot. I moved on and even offered my husband the rest of the bag when I had eaten what I wanted at that time.

The incident made me think, though: is it possible to share food while in recovery from my ED? I don’t think it is. I think it vastly increases the chance of a binge resulting from needing to know that the food won’t disappear and be lost to me. I think it makes me feel a loss of empowerment and I think it diminishes my very limited baby steps towards caring for myself by having the right foods available for myself at any given time.

I feel guilty about this. After all, my societally approved gender role involves not only sharing food, but actively providing food to my mate. Food should not be mine. Food should be something I give to the world, not the other way around. So buying, keeping, and not sharing food like an angry squirrel feels very wrong.

I hope that someday my food anxiety and scarcity-tinged panic will subside, but until then I guess I’m going to start putting post-it notes on my stuff in the fridge.